Loom

How can I process these emotions,

When the world seems but amiss,

And it happened as your lips touched mine,

And we formed them in a kiss.

I thought butterflies would sparkle,

Against the summer night,

I take my coffee sweet, 

It's less bitter on my taste, 

It takes a little honey, 

And a dash of milk to make. 

If I love you were the last words that would roll upon my lips, 

Would they find themselves an alter, 

As you kissed my fingertips?